Chapter Text
It was the spring of 2001, and everything was changing.
Everyone knew it.
It was just a feeling hanging in the air around the once close-knit family.
Sam was seventeen now. He had graduated a semester early from high school and had started helping with hunts more regularly. John seemed impressed by how deeply his youngest son had thrown himself into the work and probably believed that, with school finally over, Sam was settling into the family business without complaint.
But Dean knew the truth.
A month earlier, Dean had found the Stanford acceptance letter hidden under Sam’s mattress.
Full ride.
California.
Gone.
Dean had quietly slipped the letter back where he found it and never mentioned it. He’d deal with it later. Sam would have to tell everyone eventually. He was still Brotherhood, even if he refused to wear the ring. Which meant sooner or later he’d have to tell Jim, the Triad, and worst of all—
John Winchester.
That was a fight Dean wasn’t looking forward to.
When Caleb left for Auburn, John had made it painfully clear he didn’t think higher education belonged in the hunting world. Mackland Ames, on the other hand, argued it was possible to balance both lives.
Unfortunately for Sam, he had the wrong father.
Dean shoved those thoughts aside and focused on the present.
He still had five more months before everything changed.
Five more months before his family stopped being whole.
For now, that was enough.
Dean stood in the motel room beside Sam, John, and Caleb—who might as well have been another Winchester brother at this point—as they discussed the hunt.
And as usual?
Sam and John were arguing.
This time it was over the creature they were supposed to be hunting.
“Sam, just follow my orders, okay?” John said coldly.
“Dad, this isn’t about following orders.” Sam crossed his arms tightly. “I’m not trying to piss you off, I just don’t think a spirit did this.”
“Sam, we have a murdered woman in the house and bodies ripped to pieces. It’s a violent spirit.”
“Dad, look at the crime scene photos.” Sam pointed toward the table. “These people are so mangled there’s no way to tell if all of them is even there.” He shook his head. “You can’t rule out something else yet. We need more research.”
“Sam, enough.” John’s voice hardened. “We don’t have time for more research. We’re going after this thing tonight and that’s final.”
Sam sighed heavily.
“I’ll go grab more salt from the car so we can make extra rounds.” He grabbed the duffel bag. “Is that alright with you, sir?”
“I’ll help him,” Caleb added quickly.
John nodded and turned back toward Dean to continue outlining the plan.
Caleb followed Sam outside to the Impala where the younger Winchester was already throwing shells, shotguns, and bags of rock salt into a duffel.
Caleb started helping automatically, tossing supplies toward him until he picked up a small black velvet pouch.
He frowned and opened it.
A silver ring slipped into his palm.
Brotherhood.
The exact same ring every member wore.
“This yours or John’s?”
Sam glanced at the ring and sighed.
He’d received it the previous Thanksgiving.
And he’d never worn it once.
The ring was supposed to feel like honor.
Family.
Purpose.
Instead it only made him realize how badly he didn’t want this life.
“Mine,” Sam answered quietly. “Dad keeps his in a wooden box at Pastor Jim’s.”
“And you keep yours in the trunk?”
“Closest thing to home I’ve got to keep it in.”
Caleb couldn’t really argue with that.
Besides the farm, the Impala was the only constant home Sam had ever known.
Both Winchester boys had practically grown up in the back seat of that car.
“Well,” Caleb said carefully, “guess I’m just surprised you kept it.” He rolled the ring between his fingers. “Figured you didn’t want it.”
“I don’t.” Sam took the ring back and shoved it into the pouch. “But when Mac gave it to me, he said I still deserved the choice.” He shrugged slightly. “I may not wanna wear it, but that doesn’t change the fact he gave it to me.”
Caleb nodded slowly.
When John had given him his ring, it had meant more than Brotherhood.
It had meant belonging.
“So level with me.” Caleb leaned against the Impala. “Why don’t you think it’s a spirit?”
Sam rolled his eyes.
“No reason. I’m obviously just trying to piss Dad off because I have nothing better to do with my life.”
Caleb laughed.
“Bullshit.”
“And how would you know?”
“C’mon, kid.” Caleb smirked. “The only person who knows you better than me is your brother.” He crossed his arms. “If you were trying to pick a fight, you wouldn’t do it over a hunt.” His expression softened slightly. “Not when you think people could die.”
Sam smiled faintly.
Yeah.
Caleb understood him better than John ever had.
“I don’t know,” Sam admitted quietly. “Something’s wrong about this hunt.” He glanced back toward the motel room. “But Dad made his choice.” He shrugged. “So we go, hope to hell he’s right, and if he isn’t?” His jaw tightened. “We get everybody out alive.”
Caleb nodded once.
“Look, I respect your dad.” He pushed away from the car. “But I’ve got your back, kid.”
Sam walked past him toward the motel room.
“I know you do, Caleb.” He paused briefly at the door. “So I’m sorry.”
Caleb frowned immediately.
“Sorry for what?”
Sam looked back over his shoulder.
“That I can’t do this forever.”
Then he disappeared back inside.
And suddenly Caleb had a very bad feeling sitting in the pit of his stomach.
They only had two hours to prep.
That feeling would have to wait.
Caleb walked back into the room where Sam and Dean were already loading rock salt into shotgun shells.
“Alright,” John said, pointing at a rough sketch of the house. “Dean and Caleb, you take the back. Sam and I take the front.” He looked between them. “Since she was cremated, we’re looking for anything tying her to the house.” He crossed his arms. “Questions?”
“No, sir,” the younger hunters answered together.
“Good. Load the guns. We leave in an hour.”
John disappeared outside without another word.
“Bossy motherfucker, ain’t he?” Caleb muttered.
Sam snorted while Dean just shook his head.
“He’s the senior hunter, Damien.” Dean kept loading shells. “He’s always taken that job a little too seriously.”
Caleb laughed softly, but his attention drifted between the brothers.
Every few minutes he caught Dean watching Sam when he thought nobody noticed.
Like he was memorizing him.
Sam either didn’t notice—
or pretended not to.
Either way, he kept loading shells with complete focus.
Something was going on between them.
And Caleb hated secrets.
Eventually John returned and personally inspected every weapon like none of them had ever handled a shotgun before.
“Alright,” John said finally. “Load up. I’m taking the truck. Meet me there.”
He grabbed one of the duffel bags and headed outside.
“Everybody ready?” Dean asked.
“Damn right.” Caleb grinned. “Let’s go kick some evil ass.”
Dean looked toward Sam.
“Sammy?”
Sam slammed the magazine into his Taurus and tucked it into the back of his jeans.
“Yeah, Dean.” He nodded once. “Let’s go.”
The drive was quiet.
Dean stared at the road while thinking about Stanford.
Caleb watched Sam carefully in the rearview mirror.
And Sam?
Sam kept mentally replaying the hunt.
Something wasn’t right.
He knew it.
And Sam Winchester trusted his instincts.
He just needed to make sure everybody got out alive.
When they finally arrived, the house looked exactly like every haunted house from every bad horror movie ever made.
Run-down.
Boarded up.
Rotting.
Nobody had lived there in years.
John climbed out of the truck and handed Sam a shotgun.
“Alright, boys.” He checked his weapon. “Let’s get this done.”
Dean and Caleb circled toward the back while Sam followed John to the front entrance.
They pried loose several boards and climbed inside.
The house smelled rotten.
Like death soaked into the walls.
Sam and John cleared the first floor before meeting the others in the kitchen.
“You guys find anything?” Caleb asked.
“Nothing downstairs,” John answered. “Upstairs?”
Dean shook his head.
“Nothing. Guess the house is clean.”
“We didn’t check the basement,” Sam said immediately.
John frowned.
“This place has a basement?”
“Yeah.” Sam pointed toward the living room. “Saw it on the floor plans last night. There’s a hatch under the rug.”
He crossed the room, shoved aside an old carpet, and pulled open the wooden hatch.
Darkness yawned beneath them.
John started climbing down when a vase suddenly launched across the room, barely missing Sam’s head.
“Dad, go!” Dean shouted. “See what you can find!”
“Alright.” John dropped lower into the basement. “If you see it, shoot it.”
The second he disappeared downstairs, chaos erupted.
Furniture flew through the air.
Windows shattered.
The hunters fired salt rounds blindly through the room.
Then somebody screamed.
A man flickered into view.
Dean shot him directly in the chest.
The creature staggered—
then smiled.
The salt hadn’t done a damn thing.
“That isn’t a spirit!” Caleb shouted.
“Well then what the hell is it?” Dean yelled, dodging a flying chair.
“Rakshasa!” Sam shouted back.
“What the hell’s a Rakshasa?”
“Monster. Corporeal. Eats people.” Sam’s eyes widened slightly. “And we can’t kill it without a brass knife, which means we need to get the hell out of—”
Sam never finished the sentence.
Something slammed him violently into the wall.
Glass exploded beside him.
A jagged shard buried itself deep into his stomach.
Sam doubled over—
and the Rakshasa appeared directly beside him.
Its teeth sank into his shoulder.
Sam let out a raw, guttural scream.
“Sammy!” Dean shouted.
Sam hit the floor hard, blood pouring from both wounds as he struggled to stay upright.
At the sound of his son screaming, John came charging back upstairs.
“Dean! Caleb!” John barked. “Get Sam outta here!”
“What about you?” Dean yelled.
“I’m finding something to kill this bastard!” John grabbed another shotgun. “Take care of your brother!”
Dean and Caleb hauled Sam upright between them and sprinted for the door.
The second they reached the Impala, Caleb jumped behind the wheel while Dean climbed into the backseat with Sam sprawled half-conscious across his lap.
Dean pressed his hands against the wounds desperately trying to slow the bleeding.
“Sammy?” Dean whispered frantically. “I need you awake, okay?”
Sam’s eyes fluttered open.
“De…?”
“Hey, kiddo.” Dean forced a smile.
“Caleb?”
Sam looked weakly toward the front seat.
“Right here, Sam,” Caleb answered immediately.
“You guys okay?”
Dean laughed shakily.
“We’re fine, Sammy.” He tightened pressure against the wound. “We’re not the ones bleeding all over the seats.”
Sam frowned vaguely.
“Wha…?”
He tried to sit up and groaned when Dean forced him gently back down.
“Stay still.”
“Deaaaan…” Sam whimpered weakly. “Get it out…”
“I will.” Dean swallowed hard. “Soon as we get back to the motel.”
Sam’s head rolled heavily against Dean’s shoulder.
His eyes started drifting shut again.
“Hey.” Dean shook him lightly. “Nope. Stay awake.”
Sam mumbled something incoherent.
Dean looked toward Caleb in the mirror.
Too much blood.
Way too much blood.
“Don’t do this to me, man,” Dean whispered. “Keep your eyes open.”
Then Dean made a decision.
“Tell me about Stanford.”
Sam’s eyes cracked open again.
“How do you know about that?” he whispered.
Dean laughed softly through the panic.
“C’mon, Sammy.” His voice shook slightly. “Did you really think my little brother was gonna get a full ride and I wouldn’t find out?”
Sam smiled weakly.
“Guess not…” He swallowed hard. “You know everything about me.” His eyes drifted toward Dean. “I’m sorry, De… I need to go…”
Tears burned behind Dean’s eyes.
“I know you do, Sammy.” His voice cracked. “Just…” He tightened his grip on him. “Make sure you come back, okay?”
Sam didn’t answer.
His eyes slid shut.
“Sammy?” Dean shook him harder. “Sammy!”
Dean checked desperately for a pulse.
Still there.
Weak.
But there.
“Deuce?” Caleb asked tightly. “Hospital or motel?”
“Motel.”
Caleb frowned immediately.
“You sure? What if he needs blood?”
“We learned field transfusions when we were kids.” Dean looked back down at Sam. “If we have to, I’ll give him mine.”
Caleb nodded and slammed harder on the gas.
They needed to get Sam patched up.
Fast.